Letter to American Restaurants, by Jaiden Geolingo

dear america,

                i had you in spoonfuls the other day             for forgiveness.

                                like always, the grease slips through my mouth-muscles & collides

                in stomach acid.                 i stuffed tenderness between my molars, pressed them together,

                                                let the oil house itself in a burning throat. because i swallow

                your body to        remember  home. because i don’t want to   walk through

                                 petroleum & recall the     stench of shelter. forgive my fragility,

                america. i will never forget the      June-washed monsoons & the lone children in Manila— how they

would hold bony hands with wildfire &       a silent prayer: one for the body, another for the sky.

                america, i want to continue             seizing my mouth with your hands. i want to witness

the          brazen light down the street.          i want to hold the               seas just as it rises because

                it will take me     

                                                home.